I spoke my thoughts. I took risks. I got inspired. I was a shining beam of energy.

I was alive.

My days are spent in captivity. But who is my captor?

Not he, obviously. He did not lie or force me into this. There never were any false promises of anything better.

I think… I think I invited myself into this.

After all, wasn’t I all those things I said earlier? And if so, who could have ever forced upon me a life I did not want? Who could have held me down had I not allowed it? Who could have stopped me but myself?

But does that mean I deserve this? Or that I should keep up with this?

Is change really so sacrilegious?

It doesn’t matter now. The questions are useless. Useless, unless I stop asking it to myself, and bring it out before the world. Before them. And that, I cannot do.

The mall was scrambling with people as always. So many faces, so many shops.

So what were the odds of me running into her in that very shop, in that very moment?

“Hey!” she screamed. But in a calm way. “Hi! How are you?”

“I’m alright,” I managed, not so calm. “It’s, uh, it’s good to see you. Shopping?”

“Nah. Just checking out boys.”

I opened my mouth to speak but closed them quickly. There was a knowing smirk in her face. I laughed, rubbing the back of my head. “I’m just going to believe you didn’t mean a satire.”

“I did not.” Her dramatic tone said otherwise. “So. Where have you been these days? What are you up to?”

“I’m, uh, I’m just… hanging in there, you know?”

“Mm-hmm, I know. I know all about those.”

“And you?” I said. “Did you land that bank job, by the way?”

“I did,” she nodded, not so excited. “It lasted for exactly eight months.”

“Why?” I wasn’t one bit interested in knowing why she could not continue her dream job for more than eight months, but I was afraid of the awkward silence.

She began explaining about something to do with her career plans and then about her passion and then a hefty argument about how passion and career were two different things not to be mixed. Textbook stuff, really.

“Do you think I shouldn’t have quit the job?” she said.

I snapped. “Huh? Oh.” The fuck would I know. “Are you happy?”

She made a thinking face. It suited her well. She was a smart woman, and the last thing she needed was my wisdom. Perhaps she too was afraid of that silence. “Hmm. Not any more than I was before.” She shrugged. “But I do get time for a plenty of mall visits!”

“And isn’t it all that matters?” I made a dramatic arc in air with my hand.

She laughed.

Ah, and finally it was there. The part I dreaded the most. That awkward silence.

She watched my face. I mean really watched. Like there was no pressure on her mind to bring up something to talk. Like it was just okay to stand and stare at each other. Like it didn’t spark any old memories. Like she didn’t care.

My mind, on the other hand, was doing thousands of computations, trying to come up with anything smart to say. The mall is exceptionally well-lit today. Was that stall here a few days ago? Don’t you think the babies shouldn’t be allowed in here?

She smiled. “He’s good.” She shook her head as if to say ‘meh’. “He’s all right, actually. He says marrying me has been, um, really painful. Worst decision.” She forced a few extra nods at the end of that statement.

I let out a snort. “You always have the right things to say.”

She feigned a bow. Then a moment of silence later, said, “I miss you. Well, sometimes. Can’t we be like this… again?”

I didn’t bother thinking about it. I had done it enough. “No.”

She nodded. I knew she understood that. Ever so practical, the two of us. Too practical, some would say.

Silence.

“So,” she said, smiling a sad smile for the first time. “I guess I’ll run into you some place else then?”

Shavik stood on the dais raised at the center of Hangman’s Square, where he was to be hanged momentarily, and felt a tension rising in the air.

The tension was twofold.

One, of the ruling aristocrats, seated at the front row and the high seats, who longed for the execution to go down swiftly. Two, of the common folks, who had gathered around the square to be with their messiah in his final moments, praying for a miracle.

Dark clouds had gathered up above, as the square began to fill up with more and more of these common folks. People who had long lost interest in any cause but their own daily survival. Who had seen enough disappointments to have forgotten what it even felt like to hope.

Shavik was God to them, and their final hope of salvation from the Extremist Regime. And even now, Shavik could see it in their eyes, they were convinced that he could not be killed. He could tell they were here expecting a miracle.

And therein lied the problem.

Shavik was no God. He could fight with them, but if he continued to fight for them, alone, as their messiah, the cause was going nowhere. He could not win alone, and he could not get the people to fight to win, with their hopes resting upon some miracle from a false God.

They had to know that their backs were against the wall, and no one to save them but themselves. For the real rebellion to rise, the false God had to fall.

As the first drop of rain hit the earth, Shavik smiled at the real Gods above, if such a thing even existed. This was perfect.

“This is where I bid you farewell,” Shavik cried out. “For long, you have considered me your God. But in the next few moments you shall find it to be utterly untrue.”

A wave of laughter hit him, coming from the aristocrats seated at the front row.

“And as you open your eyes to this truth, I want you to realize, that it was one common man, of flesh and blood, as you all, who shook the Extremist Regime to its very core.” He spat. “Now as you make note of that, I want each one of you to ask yourself a question.”

He saw the aristocrats leaning in. “Ask: what if instead of one man, there had been thousands? What if I had all of you beside me at the March of Silence?”

“Enough!” someone screamed. “Pull the handle.”

“But do not despair for this is not the end,” Shavik shouted.

The rope came around his neck, and the crowd erupted in one unified voice of complain.

“Today, as one Shavik falls,” he screamed above the crowd, “a thousand more will rise among you!”

Then the bloody floor gave away. Amidst the roars and jeers of the crowd, the loudest noise Shavik heard was a sharp creak of his own neck.

“Look, mommy! Look what I drew?” Little Naomi pushed the drawing pad at her mother’s face.

“Ah…” Sara’s expression turned from feigned enthusiasm to genuine disgust. “Uh. And just what in God’s name is that?”

“Not God, mommy. It’s the Devil!”

“Goodness, girl,” she let out an exasperated sigh. “What should I ever do with your fascination with demons?”

“Not demons, mommy.” She looked disappointed. “The Devil.”

“And now you’re getting technical at it.”

“I don’t think you like my art.”

“Oh, no, baby.” She dropped to her knee and hugged her little girl. “I do admire your… drawings. It’s just—” She clasped her hands. “Couldn’t you draw dragons or something? Or the Warrior Princess! You love that show, right? Why not draw her?”

“Because she is lame. She always needs help from that stupid Sir Knight. She’s weak. I love the show but I hate her, mommy.” She stomped her foot, perhaps just so Sara would get her hatred right.

She watched, unblinking.

“You know what’s not lame?” The little girl’s eyes lightened up.

And Sara already knew the answer. “The Devil, darling,” she sighed. “The Devil is so not-lame.”

And there he stood, behind the shut door, looming large in his dark suit, smoky eyes and proud smug, smiling contently at Sara.

“What a time to drop by,” she said.

“You know I’m always around,” he said, voice deep and calm. He held his stare at her, hands resting behind his back.

“What?” she spat.

“Say it.”

“There’s nothing to say. You poisoned her thoughts, that’s it.”

“You’re accusing me of dishonoring my deal? Careful, now.” He stopped smiling. “You know I get touchy about these matters.”

Sara narrowed her eyes, anger boiling up right through her gut.

But then she swallowed it all down. “Alright, alright. I loose, okay?”

“Say them proper, babe,” he teased, almost in a sing-song way.

“I lost the bet, Lu. I took her out of Hell, but couldn’t take the Hell out of her. Our daughter is her father’s girl, after all. There. Happy?” She took a step. “Now can we finally leave this weakling world? Just take us home.”

Halfway through October, writers all across the globe are preparing for the big writing event in November that is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month).

Very quickly then, for those who are not familiar with it… NaNoWriMo is an annual event, where writers all over the world take on a mammoth of a challenge of writing 50 thousand words in one month. The reward for all the trouble is internal satisfaction, peer motivation, and a feeling of camaraderie. Also, it really helps to get the 1st draft done! (see also Camp NaNoWriMo?)

For this year’s NaNo, which is my third, I am trying to continue (or rather revamp) the story that went unfinished during last NaNo. The title of the book is “Liberty Crisis: A Book of The Shade Saga”, and it is a fantasy book set in my The Shade Saga world.

As the world of writers busy themselves in planning, plotting, or simply ideating their novels, I kept myself busy by trying to come up with book cover designs! Procrastination at its best.

She slips inside in sleepless nights
Smiles on me her celestial lights
The blaze of sun and the glaze of moon
She shows them all and leaves just as soon

She moves amidst those dancing shadows
As if she owns me, around she wallows
Whispering thoughts that’s just my kind
I wonder ofttimes if she reads my mind

When the dawn hits, she’s no more there
Conjured of thoughts, she’s not so real
A spirit, a musing, a fantasy, if you will
Only her touch left behind for me to feel

That’s when I pen her down
And all her whispering
Those genius words!
Those genuine thoughts!
I bleed them all out
For the world to see
And to think I’m a genius!
There can be no greater sin.

I am but a vessel
A simple messengerHers
For it is I
who can see her, hear her, feel her
So it is I
who must present her beauty to all
Her beauty
Her words
Her thoughts
It’s not me
Oh, not me!
I am but a messenger
I am but a vessel.